The Catalyst Killing - [40]

We carried on to the bedrooms. Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen had each a room to themselves by the front door. Then there was the double room where Kristine Larsen and Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had slept, and the double room where Falko Reinhardt and Marie Morgenstierne had shared their last nights together.

I made an attempt to sneak past the door without any shoes on, but the floorboards creaked loudly under my feet and Miriam heard me straight away from the bed in the room where she had slept. It seemed unlikely that anyone could have sneaked out that way.

Miriam had been right about the window, much to her relief. It was high up on the wall and no more than twelve inches wide. I had to stand on a chair to reach it, and even then could barely stick my head out through the opening. It would not have been possible for Falko Reinhardt to squeeze his body out through the frame.

In short, two of three possible ways in which Falko Reinhardt could have left the cabin were swiftly eliminated. Miriam looked at me with great curiosity when I said that I had another theory to test. Then she sent me a pleading look when I asked to be left on my own in the room for a few minutes. She was, however, very disciplined and obedient by nature, and took her book out of her bag without protest when I shrugged apologetically and pointed to the living room.

I spent the next quarter of an hour making a crude investigation of the room’s walls, ceiling and floor. Everything looked pretty normal, and I was sceptical of Patricia’s theory to begin with. And my scepticism in no way diminished when I had tapped my way across all four walls, including the cupboard, and across the few feet of open floor.

However, my pulse started to race when I discovered first one and then two more loose nails in a floorboard under the bed where Falko and Marie had slept.

My excitement increased when it turned out that the double bed was not attached to the floor in any way.

I pulled it to one side and took out the four loose nails in the floorboard, and could then confirm that a space just wide enough and deep enough to hide a person had been dug out below. And none of the nails in the floorboard in question, nor the one beside it, had been hammered in properly.

I stood there looking down at the secret chamber. It was easy enough to picture it now. Falko Reinhardt had either discovered or dug out this space himself beforehand, and on the night of the storm, he had loosened the floorboards and slipped down there. I stood for some time and pondered why he might have done this.

I then went to get Miriam, told her about the cavity under the bed and asked her if she had ever seen or heard about it before. She looked at me, impressed, and with naked curiosity peered down into the secret hollow. She shook her head firmly and assured me that it was not something she had heard about – or even imagined existed.

When I asked if it could have been Falko Reinhardt she saw going in the other direction that stormy night, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen nodded eagerly. The thought had crossed her mind and was certainly not entirely implausible.

‘In which case, he then obviously left the cabin of his own accord, having first planned his escape,’ she remarked in a matter-of-fact voice. I nodded my cautious agreement and said that there was much to indicate that.

There was nothing more to be found indoors. So I asked Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen to show me the way to the cliff where Falko’s shoe had been discovered the morning after he disappeared.

We found it on the third attempt. The distance to the cliff was about a quarter of a mile. When we got there, I saw the stone beside which Falko Reinhardt’s shoe had been found. It was a large white stone, almost three feet tall, and had sheltered the shoe from the wind.

The view from the cliff was spectacular. The drop was about three hundred feet down onto scree, and Falko Reinhardt could hardly have survived if he had fallen over the edge in the storm. Both Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen and I allowed ourselves to be captivated by the view for a few moments. But, as was to be expected, we found no new traces of the missing cabin guest and no new clues as to what might have happened to him.

With Patricia’s help, I had solved the riddle as to how Falko Reinhardt had left the cabin in the raging storm. But the more crucial questions as to why he had left and where he then went remained unanswered.

V

At a quarter to one, we locked the door to the cabin, got into the car and drove on to Henry Alfred Lien’s farm. The journey only lasted a matter of minutes. Miriam gave an understanding nod when I said that I could not take her in with me, and as soon as I parked the car on the driveway up to the farm, she pulled out her book.

The weather had improved and the sun was shining now. As I got out of the car, it struck me that the farm with the mountains in the background would have been a perfect motif for one of the NS propaganda posters of the 1930s.

The farmer himself, paradoxically, would not have fitted in. He was far too old, too grey and a little too fat. Henry Alfred Lien turned out to be a stocky man of around seventy. His gait was confident yet slow as he progressed across the farmyard. His face was serious and stern, as though carved in granite. And his handshake was firm when he invited me, in a not unfriendly manner, to come into the living room in the main house.